


Memory in the Flesh

by teacuphuman



Series: AELDWS July 2017 [1]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Body Dysphoria, M/M, Skin Hunger, Sometimes Eames needs to remember who he is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-21
Updated: 2017-07-21
Packaged: 2018-12-04 22:20:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11564478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teacuphuman/pseuds/teacuphuman
Summary: He may carry the chip, but his body is his true totem.





	Memory in the Flesh

**Author's Note:**

> Written Week 1 of AELDWS July 2017.   
> Prompt: Skin hunger  
> Genre: AU (magical or canon-based)  
> Word Count: Up to 500 words

The jacket goes first. Hitting the floor with a dull thud because his wallet and passport are still in the front pocket. Next is the shirt, the seams protesting as it’s ripped off in haste. His eyes roam the shaded skin of his chest and arms, hungry for the lines of ink he knows so well. He stumbles out of his pants, unable to tear his gaze away from the man in the mirror. The man he fell asleep as, little more than two hours ago.

 

His flesh is tanned and lightly furred, just as it’s supposed to be, no longer soft and pocked, the body of a man who lived a life much more indulgent, though unsettlingly darker, than his own. Gone are the ugly scars wrought by deceit and betrayal, every one a testament to the dark soul contained within the vessel they decorate. 

 

The taste of blood it still bright and sharp in his mouth, but his teeth are his own. He scrubs a finger over them, just to be sure, letting out a shuddering breath of relief at their perfect irregularity. He twists to find the long, diagonal scar that curves just under his ribs. The one he tells people is from a con gone bad in Mexico. One too many drinks in Vaasa with a pink-haired girl. That one time in Marrakech. Anything but the truth. He traces the scar with his fingers, remembering the look on his sister’s face when the bloodwork came back and he was a match.

 

His hands are shaking, the right one still half curved around a gun that’s no longer there, the pinky unable to straighten after someone gave his idiot teenage self a knife bigger than his ego. Two hours out of the dream isn’t quite long enough to banish the feeling that he should still be able to lay it flat. 

 

The pitted scar on his upper thigh is still shiny and pink, only six months old and aching like a bitch in the cold of the motel room. His breath is quick, but even, slowing fractionally with every spot he touches. He may carry the chip, but his body is his true totem.

 

A strong arm slides across his chest, warm breath on his neck as he’s embraced. Dark eyes meet his in the mirror, but there’s no worry in them, only a stark understanding of the inventory he has to take. Long fingers follow the path he’s marked out, double checking his findings and ticking them off, one by one. 

 

It’s ritual now, after all this time, and without it he knows he’d be lost. Lost to the voices he creates inside his head. To the lives he dons like a second skin, each time finding them harder to tear off when he’s done. 

 

It ends with his palm pressed to his own name, written in dark, curling script over a stable beating heart. This is his body, his life, and Arthur is his home.

  
  



End file.
